Sometimes it feels
as though the world
forgets about me.
As if, for a time,
I ceased to be.
Everything I’ve touched.
Everything I’ve done;
My every deed deleted;
it wouldn’t take much.
No-one would remember
no-one would recall
because I’d simply
never existed at all.
No great loss.
Cold winds blow over a desolate landscape
howling through the hollow places.
Solitary footprints disturb the dust.
Frigid, forsaken and blasted world,
where silence is so loud
screaming its pain into the biting gust.
Jagged, jutting bones of failed relationships
the expectant pause of words unsaid
a symphony of regret; a chorus of misplaced trust.
Cityscapes of misspent chances mingle
with the spider web of broken roads.
A bitter and empty honeycomb.
Windows bulge with age and neglect
tattered curtains billow and grasp
for a comfort they have never known
No warmth; no healing touch.
No arms to hide in; to chase away the dark.
A raw and vacuous home.